


Ready, Set, Jump!

by RoxieFlash



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 03:48:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4124559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxieFlash/pseuds/RoxieFlash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't what she thinks it is. It can't be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ready, Set, Jump!

There's a constellation of raised red pricks and scratches on Rose's legs from rushing through the jungle in shorts, a wisp of smoke - and a vague sense of alarm - curling up from the Doctor's bigger-on-the-inside left coat pocket, and they've just flung themselves off the top of a mountain.

A boring sort of day, really, for the Doctor and Rose Tyler.

She's really glad they packed the hang gliders.

Rose's hands grip, white-knuckled, on the bar, as her stomach dips and swoops with their transport. Beside her, the Doctor's amazed laugh echoes out across white-capped rivers, mingling with the wind rushing through trees and the bright cries of tropical birds.

"Rose," he says. " _Look."_

She is looking, through probably not at what he'd like her to. It's been especially bad today, the looking - but really, it's not fair how he's left one more button on his collar undone than usual, or that the pants on that particular suit are obviously a size too small, because  _blimey_ , his bum. It's really rather inconsiderate of him, the look of wonder and delight on his face as he surveys the jungle - the way his grin is all teeth and bottom lip.

They share a smile before they're in a tangle of limbs on the ground, wrestling for purchase on the side of a hill, on the top of which the TARDIS is perched.

Rose has wound up at the bottom of this particular pile of limbs, flat on her back against a pile of some rather uncomfortable vines. But it's not the vines that are her concern in this particular arrangement, or the fact that the hang gliders have continued on a bit without them, sailing over the top of the TARDIS and getting tangled in the jungle beyond.

"Doctor?"

"Eh?"

The Doctor's hair is attractively mussed from the wind, and his eyes are sort of dazed from the adrenaline rush of their flight. Rose catches his eye and then, very slow, follows the path of his right hand to where it is sitting squarely atop her breast.

"Oh," says the Doctor.

It's really quite warm, his hand - he's leaned most of his weight off it, now, so that breathing is a bit easier, oh, it's nice and heavy and warm against her, and if she shuts her eyes she can imagine he's touching her by choice instead of happy accident. He will, of course, snatch his hand away at any moment.

Except he doesn't.

She notices the way he shifts almost as an afterthought, his knee slipping between her legs, but not touching, as the pressure becomes less slight and more insistent. The tips of his fingers drift in a barely-there circle, and Rose struggles not to arch her back. This isn't what she thinks it is. It can't be.

His eyes are hooded, now, and the bare skin of his neck flushed as he takes the shortest, shallowest breath. His jaw sets, and the muscles in his shoulder shift beneath his jacket, all of him tense like a rubber band pulled taut.

He certainly doesn't  _intend_  to stroke, just so, on the sensitive underside, make her clench her thighs together and find that his knee prevents her from doing so. It can't be his endgame, the way she whimpers and digs her fingernails into the ground below her as his index finger continues to spiral closer to where she wants it, dark eyes full of rapt fascination as he watches her nipple pucker into a hard peak beneath her t-shirt.

Except it is, and when he fits her fully into his palm, giving a hard and deliberate squeeze and pinching her nipple between thumb and forefinger, Rose cries out.

The rubber band snaps.

Suddenly the entire warm, lanky weight of the Doctor is pressed against all of Rose, her hands buried in his hair as he sucks greedily at her breast, rolling the hard little peak between his lips and leaving a dark, wet mark on the grey material when he pulls away. While he paints a trail of kisses down her neck, her hips surge forward and she finds that his thigh has landed  _just there_.

Oh.

She hooks her leg around his hip, uses it for leverage.

_Oh._

The Doctor has just shoved the flimsy fabric of her bra aside, his tongue tracing a rough, insistent path towards it's original destination, when she notices the smoke.

"Doctor, you're on fire."

Her mouth falls open when he draws his head back, grinding his thigh into her and raising his head. His lips are wet, his breath ragged, and when a dark, wicked smirk creeps onto his face, Rose's fingernails sink into his shoulder of their own accord.

"Oh, my Rose," he growls -  _growls._  "You're about to find out how much."

She deserves a medal for what happens next.

"Doctor, I mean," Rose coughed, The smoke is getting quite troublesome, now. "I mean,  _you're really on fire_!"

He yelps, and scrambles backwards, nearly tripping on the selfsame vines that had been trapped under Rose's back. Whatever burning thing he'd shoved in his pockets earlier is apparently at full blaze now; it takes all over Rose's strength to focus and do what she can to preserve the contents of the dimensionally transcendental pockets in his big brown coat.

Her favorite lip gloss is in there.

Half an hour later, both the jacket and the Doctor are intact, if a little singed. The Doctor's burnt his hand trying to retrieve her lip gloss (valiant boy) and Rose has him positioned on the jump seat, hand in hers with some ointment and a bandage. If she weren't already the heroine of the day, Rose Tyler is playing nursemaid to a Time Lord with a bruised ego and a bright red pinky finger.

"Rose," he begins. "I'm a Time Lord, I don't need -"

Her finger gently swipes at a stray streak of ointment, and his mouth abruptly clamps shut. They spend a few minutes in silence, Rose wrapping his hand in a bandage she knows he doesn't need, staring at his nimble fingers while she waits on the Doctor to make a decision.

The TARDIS makes a slightly threatening sparking noise, and the Doctor looks alarmed.

"Blimey, what -" he starts.

"Oh," Rose says casually. "S'just her way of telling ya that if you try to pretend this," she gestures at the nearly-dry damp spot on her shirt, never taking her eyes off wrapping his finger. "Never happened, we'll fly back up the mountain and toss you off it."

The TARDIS buzzes.

"Without the glider."

Frowning, the Doctor bats her hands away, laces his fingers with hers and tugs her forward. The tops of her thighs hit the jump seat and she comes to rest in the space between his legs. "Do you really think I'd -?"

"An' then you'd try distractin' me with a question about something you've never told me before."

The Doctor suddenly grins, and it's the bright, heart-stopping grin from earlier, when he was so eager to show her the jungle. It's so heart stopping, in fact, that she almost doesn't notice his hand slide up to cup the breast that had been neglected earlier.

"Rose Tyler," the Doctor says, his fingers pinching and rolling. Rose's head falls back. "Have I ever told you you have _fantastic_  breasts?


End file.
